Can't I Get Upset Without Having To Talk About What's Really Upsetting Me?

Wait, so does anyone else out there ever lay awake at night with the soul-wrenching feeling that you're a lot more talented and disciplined than what you're doing, but a few poor choices in terms of your career are going to forever condemn you to a life of crushing ennui and mediocrity?

Ugh, I don't want to talk about that anymore. Partly because later on, the Object will force me to talk about it, since he grew up in one of those families where the kids discussed their problems in a safe and caring atmosphere, resolved them, and moved on- whereas I grew up in one of those families where we internalized problems and pushed them waaaaaaay down into our subconscious so that they became hard, cancerous knots, which is apparently how Grandma died while my Dad's father was married to three women all at once.

My mother is a fish.

But also, talking about angst this morning blemishes my glorious accomplishment of last night:

Dearest Reader, I have 80 gigabytes of fresh, clean, brand-spanking-new iPod goodness.

And to herald this momentous occasion, what was the first thing I listened to?

Fleetwood Fucking Mac.